My Mother-in-law Didn’t Know I Was Paying $5,600 A Month In Rent. She Told Me To Move Out…
She had no answer for that. Wednesday morning, Patricia showed up unannounced at 10:00 a.m..
I was in the living room wrapping picture frames in bubble wrap when I heard her key in the lock. She’d had a key since we moved in and I’d never questioned it.
She stopped in the doorway, shopping bags in hand, and stared at the half-empty living room. There were four boxes stacked by the door, the TV already wrapped, and the coffee table cleared.
“Jason, what’s going on?” she asked.
“I’m moving out,” I said.
The shopping bags slipped from her fingers.
“What? You told me to move out. I’m moving out”.
Her face tightened.
“I didn’t mean this week,” she said.
“When did you mean?” I asked.
“I don’t know, August, September, when Michael’s lease is up,” she replied.
“You said I should move out. You didn’t specify a timeline, so I picked one”.
She turned toward the kitchen, voice rising.
“Amy? Amy, what is happening?” she called.
Amy emerged from the bedroom, where she’d been hiding since her mother’s car pulled up.
“Mom, I don’t know. He just started packing. Make him stop”.
“I can’t make him do anything,” Patricia said.
Patricia turned back to me and I saw something shift in her expression. The entitled confidence cracked just slightly.
“This is unreasonable,” she said.
“You’re being childish”.
I taped a box shut and wrote “books, office” on the side with a Sharpie and said nothing.
“Jason, I’m talking to you,” she said.
“I heard you,” I replied.
“Then respond,” she said.
I straightened and looked at her.
“You told me to move out. I’m moving out. That’s my response”.
Her jaw worked.
“We need to discuss this like adults,” she said.
“I’m open to discussion. What would you like to discuss?” I asked.
“Your attitude for one thing,” she said.
“My attitude is cooperative. You asked me to leave. I’m leaving”.
“You know what I meant,” she said.
“Do I?” I asked.
The question hung in the air like smoke. Patricia’s face flushed.
“This house needs to stay in the family,” she said.
“It’s not in the family,” I said quietly.
“It’s a rental. Michael needs it”.
“Then Michael can rent it,” I replied.
“He can’t afford—” She stopped, caught herself, but too late.
“Can’t afford what?” I asked.
“The $5,600 monthly rent?” I finished.
All color drained from her face. Amy’s head snapped up.
“What?” she asked.
I kept my eyes on Patricia.
“You didn’t know the rent amount?” I asked.
“I… I assumed it was split somehow. Or covered by—” She stopped again.
“Covered by who?” I asked.
She said nothing.
“You thought it was covered by the family trust?” I supplied.
“Or maybe you thought Amy’s father was still paying it before he passed?” I added.
“Jason,” Amy said sharply.
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
I turned to my wife.
“I’ve been paying the rent every month for 3 years. $5,600 from my account”.
Amy’s face went blank.
“That’s not possible,” she said.
“Check the bank statements,” I replied.
“You never told me,” she said.
“You never asked,” I answered.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Patricia sat down heavily on the couch, my $2,800 couch.
Her hands shook slightly.
“Who’s going to pay it if you leave?” she asked quietly.
I didn’t answer because we both knew. Nobody.
The Invisible Man No More
Thursday, the movers arrived with boxes and packing supplies. Two guys, Marcus and Tyler, both in their late 20s, both professional and efficient.
They moved through the house systematically wrapping furniture, loading boxes, and asking which items were mine.
“All of them,” I said.
“All of it”.
Patricia showed up again at noon. She’d been calling all morning and I hadn’t answered.
She walked into the living room and stopped cold. The couch was wrapped in plastic, ready to load, and the TV was already in the truck.
The dining table was disassembled.
“You can’t take everything,” she said.
“I can take what I paid for,” I replied.
“This is absurd,” she said.
I handed her a folder.
“Receipts, purchase confirmations, credit card statements. Everything in this house that I bought is highlighted”.
She opened the folder and flipped through the pages. Her face went from pink to white.
The dining table was mine, the appliances were mine, and the couch was mine. She looked around the rapidly emptying house like she was seeing it for the first time.
“What are we supposed to sit on?” she whispered.
I almost laughed.
“That’s not my problem,” I said.
Amy appeared from the bedroom. She’d been crying, and her eyes were red and puffy.
“Mom, he’s taking the washer and dryer,” she said.
Patricia’s head snapped up.
“You can’t,” she said.
“I can,” I said.
“I have the receipts”.
“But we need—” she began.
“You need,” I cut her off.
“3 days ago, you told me to leave. You didn’t ask what I was paying. You didn’t ask what I owned. You just decided I should go. So I’m going, and I’m taking what’s mine”.
Marcus wheeled out the washer on a dolly. Patricia watched it go like she was watching a funeral procession.
“Jason, please,” her voice cracked.
“We can work this out”.
“No,” I said quietly.
“We can’t”.
